


warmth (of another)

by mysterymistakes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterymistakes/pseuds/mysterymistakes
Summary: There's a pleasant haze between Sylvain's eyes and his brain.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Kudos: 40





	warmth (of another)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Froggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggie/gifts).



> hey! this was a snippet for [Frog](https://twitter.com/oversized_frog) that grew legs and ran away from me, so i decided to pop it up here rather than just slap it on twt.

Sylvain doesn’t know how he got here. He will know in a few hours, once the mead has worn off and the headache has set in and the pieces start to fall into place, but for now, well, ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is bliss, and Dimitri is sat across from him on the plush blue House Leader carpet that’s been stained by errant drops of alcohol and littered with pieces of their uniforms. Sylvain hasn’t seen Dimitri like this in a long while. He’s shed all that princely demeanor, and his armor has gone with it; his pale hands, bared to the warmth of the fire, wrap clumsily around the wooden cup Sylvain had taken from the dining hall. The stretched spiderweb of burns Sylvain knows to crawl across his fingers and palms are faded and almost invisible in the low light. He watches those hands as they raise the cup. It comes to rest against the pink swell of Dimitri’s bottom lip, suspended for an aching second before tipping over and spilling lukewarm amber- everywhere. Dimitri spits out a sharp curse (which is what really spurs Sylvain into action, because when was the last time he’d heard something so foul from Dimitri, and dwelling on the interested twinge in his gut seems an abjectly terrible idea) as the cup falls to the carpet with a dull _whump._ It falls, and the thin cotton undershirt Dimitri had stripped down to as the fire and the mead had mixed in their stomachs to make them so, so _warm_ is stained something sticky and brown. Through the haze that’s settled between his eyes and his brain, Sylvain moves automatically, plucking the cup to set it upright and off the carpet onto the wood of the floor before smoothly sweeping up Dimitri’s discarded uniform jacket from where it’s lying in a crumpled heap. His fingers scrunch one of the sleeves into a point and before he knows it, he's scooted forwards across the carpet and is gently dabbing at Dimitri’s chest, watching it rise and fall with a steady rhythm that presses the stray streaks of mead into the stiff fabric.

Sylvain is slightly taller than Dimitri. He has a few inches on him that he’s sure he’ll lose in the coming years, but on the floor like this, cross-legged in front of Dimitri and leaning over so that he can wipe away what little he can, he can feel Dimitri’s hot breath land on the crown of his head in long, slow puffs that match the rise and fall of his chest. Sylvain tells himself it’s the alcohol even though he knows full well it isn’t as something too close to genuine contentment, too close to happiness, settles in his gut. He drags the starched cotton across Dimitri’s skin in slow, soft strokes, trying not to pull too much as it passes over his strong collarbones, travels up towards his neck to the hollow of his throat, where there is a tiny pool of mead. Really, it’s no more than two or three droplets that have convened there, but as they disappear Sylvain becomes acutely aware of how he can feel the warmth of Dimitri’s skin, so close he can practically _taste_ it, and the bubbling in his gut and the haze in his skull tell him to lean forward, to push his tongue into that little divot and make good on all his late-night fantasies.

He doesn’t, of course. He doesn’t, because Dimitri is his friend, his liege, one of the people he cherishes most and one of the people he would surely die without, but his head and his heart have never given him the courtesy of aligning on much of anything. The starched cotton has left a handful of pink and splotchy scratches along the pale expanse of Dimitri’s clavicle. Sylvain is caught drunk and terrifyingly alone between the ache in his gut and his (knowingly impaired) higher reasoning. The mead is gone.

“Thank you, Sylvain.” Dimitri says, breathes. Sylvain watches the words rumble from his chest through his throat, watches his Adam’s apple bob around them before he realizes that the silence broke. He sits up with a start, flushed almost as red as his hair (and Dimitri is too—embarrassment is a fetching shade on him) and bumbles out some response, a _yeah_ or a _sure_ or a _isn’t that what friends are for?_

“Yes, I suppose that is what friends are for.” Dimitri muses. A smile pulls at the edges of his mouth, something soft and genuine and there’s such little space between them. Sylvain hadn’t known that Dimitri’s lashes are actually quite long, dark at the root and blonde at the tip, gently brushing against the strong set of his brow each time he blinks. He’d always thought Dimitri’s eyes to just be that piercing, icy blue, but as they flick to and away from Sylvain’s face, he can see that they’re actually gray at the center and come to a deep blue around the edges. Without thinking, he reaches up to brush back the piece of bang that’s forever obscuring Dimitri’s face. Strands of soft, silken golden-blonde fall out from between Sylvain’s fingers as he does so, and those gray-blue eyes widen. The pink raging across Dimitri’s cheeks and the top of his nose make them stand out even more. Sylvain’s heart is beating like a jackrabbit in his chest. Has it always been this hard to breathe?

Were Dimitri’s lips this soft, even in his dreams?

The kiss is barely-there, a fleeting thing, just a little too much to be brushed off as a mishap of drunken leanings-forward, but it sets Sylvain on _fire._ As Dimitri nervously pulls back, Sylvain presses up into him, noses bumping inelegantly as they find each other. It’s, well, it’s _wonderful,_ and maybe it’s because they’re drunk, but it’s the kind of thing that makes its way into cheap romance novels. Sparks dance up and down Sylvain’s spine, twinge the nerve endings in his hands to bring them up to cradle Dimitri’s face and thread his fingers through his hair. Dimitri makes the most delicious little cut-off gasp when he does and leans into it, twisting his hands into the front of Sylvain’s loose shirt. The heat between their bodies is scorching. When Dimitri pulls back for air, he falls forward, arms coming up to tightly circle Sylvain’s waist and nose buried in Sylvain’s neck, breathing deeply. Beneath the mead, Dimitri smells faintly of chamomile.

They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, ensconced in each other, safe and warm and happy, until Dimitri slumps farther forwards into Sylvain, almost bowling them both over into the wet and sticky spot on the carpet that will no doubt be hell to clean in the morning. Dimitri’s breaths are deeper now, more even, and—he’s _asleep._ Something like pride swells in Sylvain’s chest as he gingerly sets about picking Dimitri up and tucking him in. He’s always been a troubled sleeper, even more so nowadays, so for him to pass out on Sylvain’s shoulder… Sylvain smiles to himself as he pulls back the covers on Dimitri’s perfectly-made bed, mussing it thoroughly as he delicately plucks Dimitri from the floor and slides him between the sheets. He chances a look over his shoulder as he blows out the few candles and puts out the fire. Dimitri has snuggled down, arm around one pillow and sheets pulled up so far that he’s barely more than a cloud of spun gold hair resting above the quilt. Underneath the covers, one of Dimitri’s arms reaches out as though to wrap around something—someone—who isn’t there. Against his better judgement, muddled as it is, Sylvain locks Dimitri’s door and gets in bed beside him.

He’ll let himself have this.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i can be found on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mysterymistakes)


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